Post by xxxsylviaplathxxx on Jul 30, 2011 22:12:46 GMT -5
(A forewarning: a long, loquacious, and pretentious post follows.)
Borders has always been the closest book store to my house ever since it opened around 11 years ago. I have spent a major chunk of my life in Borders, and it became the place to go to when there really was no other place to go. It was a safe haven, a forest of ever-changing flora and fauna. Most weekends or lazy days started with, "What do you want to do today?" "Can we go to Borders?" In essence, Borders was heaven and the piercing-riddled employees were demigods. I decided from a young age that I wanted to work at Borders one day. I would get to snack on treats in the cafe, and look at all the cool stuff hidden around the store.
Of course, this post is being written as the same Borders I loved so much is slowly collapsing from the inside. The liquidation officially began July 22, when I was on vacation at the beach. The day before we left, I dragged my family to Borders to get one last look at the store. It was almost closing time, and employees were standing on teetering ladders, hanging up the glaring "GOING OUT OF BUSINESS" signs, haphazardly written with bright yellow Impact font. The cashier stood in front of neon yellow posters screaming: "EVERYTHING MUST GO; ALL SALES ARE FINAL." I had bought two CDs, happy that I could finally buy them because of the sale. Unfortunately, the sale didn't start until the liquidation, a word that flowed out of every employee's mouth like a bug crawling out of a drain. As I borrowed money from my mom to pay for my music, I lost it. "This is the worst day of my life," I groaned to the cashier. She was smaller than me, with jet black hair and a face that made her look ten years younger. To my surprise, she looked up at me and said, "I know what you mean. I've wanted to work here since I was little. It seemed like the coolest job in the world, and it is. Do you want a receipt?" She handed me my bag and I walked out, leaving behind the smell of glossy magazines and dark coffee.
One week passed, and my family had come home from vacation. After a well-deserved night in our own beds, today rolled around and I knew exactly what to do. "Let's go to Borders," I said confidently. I had heard from a friend that the sale was going strong now that the liquidation was happening, and that some things were practically a steal. During vacation, we had been sifting through the jumble of Borders.com, hoping to find something nice. We decided to hold off and greet the deals in person. I hopped in the car with my mom and younger brother, and we drove off to Borders. It was when we got to the street to turn into the parking lot that I noticed this was not going to go as I had hoped. Standing on the corner of the street was a man who looked like he couldn't afford a napkin at McDonalds, holding the pole of the mega-sign that was so prevalent when Circuit City was closing, or if you drive by a furniture warehouse. However, these signs had the Borders logo plastered on them, with the violently brash Impact font glaring at anyone who happened to see it. Slightly dissuaded, I pulled into the parking lot, awaiting what would greet us as we walked in through the heavy wooden doors.
The first thing that greeted us was the smell. Gone were the aromatic scents of coffee and magazines, replaced by the disgusting odor of sawdust, sweat, and cigarette-stained clothes. (I find that cigarettes have a pleasing woody smell when smoked, but the smell is awful when it is practically sewn into whatever fabric it meets.) Paying no mind to the filthy attack of air, I walked to where the latest issue of Dazed and Confused usually is. What greeted me was a kitch-stained calendar of kittens. Puzzled, I looked around and noticed everything was apparently moved around just to (pardon my french) fuck with everyone. all the magazines were picked up and thrown into the stand closest to the entrance. Men's Health was nuzzling up to Good Housekeeping, and Spin was hiding inside a copy of Martha Stewart Living. The only coherent stack of magazines was the latest issue of Adbusters, which proudly sat behind the chart explaining what 30% off meant, as if the magazines were reveling in the blatant irony.
Dazed and Confused was not in the Neverland of magazines, but a blue piece of paper assured me that new items were arriving daily.It then occurred to me that the phrase "royally screwed over" has three words; "Borders liquidation sale" does too. The selection of music left in the store was quite possibly the most pitiful selection of music ever. The three most stocked categories were: screamo, people who sound like Steve Winwood, and Enya. Thankfully, I found a Kate Nash and a Beach House CD in the bargain bin that had been shoved to the center of the store. The rest of the merchandise was not so lucky. Now, I know that I am posting on a forum where users take the handling and wellbeing of their books very seriously. What I am about to describe is quite possibly the wort possible situation that could ever happen to you.
As I browsed the still extensive selection of books, I noticed the customers that looked out of place. Usually, the Borders here is filled with high school and college kids, middle-aged people, and generally quiet, polite customers who would be happy to help you out, even though they don't work here. I entered Borders behind a tanned guy who looked like he had just ran out of the gym. He was toned in all the "beach muscle" areas, his hair was the color of burnt bark, slightly spiked up and highlighted red on the ends. Following him was his girlfriend, who looked like a crack pipe ran her over. "Look," she moaned in her nasally voice, "they have so many good movies. Look, they have Marley and Me, oh my God, they have all the good movies!" That moment opened my eyes to what those savages had done to what once was my heaven. Book covers were torn on the corners, and greasy fingerprints smeared the insides of pages. Dogeared pages were widespread, and I noticed many a book thrown on to a pile of DVDs on sale. Somehow, a vinyl copy of Coldplay's X&Y had been wedged in between two books about movie making. I was giddy when I found a copy of Conversations With Woody Allen, but reluctantly had to put it down when I noticed some strange sticky stuff was smeared all over it. I eventually ended up getting Dave Cullen's Columbine, which had finally been released in paperback, as well as the two CDs I mentioned earlier. My mom already has most of the classic books I want to read over the summer, and the only copy of The Great Gatsby was poorly printed and sold for $14. I decided to go get it at the used books store a few blocks down. As I left to do so, I noticed that half of the employees were miserable, and the others apathetic. It then occurred to me that the miserable ones were the Borders employees, and the others were sent in by the liquidation company, who had turned this great store into a Wings. (For those who don't know, Wings is a chain of stores on the southeast coast of the United States that sell trashy beach stuff, e.g.: a t-shirt that says, "Pretty when you're drunk.")
The only way I can properly describe how I feel about Borders closing is trough two analogies, one vulgar and the other not so much. The former being that feeling you get after you masturbate. It's a feeling that starts in your lower intestines and rises up until it disappears in your chest. It feels like you sucked in a bunch of air to fill all of the empty space in your body, and you come down from that temporary high caused by the forced orgasm. The latter is the feeling of a phantom limb, which struck me when I walked in to the changed Borders. It had become a vestige, a hollow state of misery and nothingness that permeated the awful smell and terrible reggae muzak that had come in with the liquidation company. I tried writing a sonnet about the final chapter of the once noble Borders, but then I realized I had the FYEMA forum members, who could do a much better job than I.
On that note, may your Shakespearian muse come to you as you commiserate with me through a sonnet.
Borders has always been the closest book store to my house ever since it opened around 11 years ago. I have spent a major chunk of my life in Borders, and it became the place to go to when there really was no other place to go. It was a safe haven, a forest of ever-changing flora and fauna. Most weekends or lazy days started with, "What do you want to do today?" "Can we go to Borders?" In essence, Borders was heaven and the piercing-riddled employees were demigods. I decided from a young age that I wanted to work at Borders one day. I would get to snack on treats in the cafe, and look at all the cool stuff hidden around the store.
Of course, this post is being written as the same Borders I loved so much is slowly collapsing from the inside. The liquidation officially began July 22, when I was on vacation at the beach. The day before we left, I dragged my family to Borders to get one last look at the store. It was almost closing time, and employees were standing on teetering ladders, hanging up the glaring "GOING OUT OF BUSINESS" signs, haphazardly written with bright yellow Impact font. The cashier stood in front of neon yellow posters screaming: "EVERYTHING MUST GO; ALL SALES ARE FINAL." I had bought two CDs, happy that I could finally buy them because of the sale. Unfortunately, the sale didn't start until the liquidation, a word that flowed out of every employee's mouth like a bug crawling out of a drain. As I borrowed money from my mom to pay for my music, I lost it. "This is the worst day of my life," I groaned to the cashier. She was smaller than me, with jet black hair and a face that made her look ten years younger. To my surprise, she looked up at me and said, "I know what you mean. I've wanted to work here since I was little. It seemed like the coolest job in the world, and it is. Do you want a receipt?" She handed me my bag and I walked out, leaving behind the smell of glossy magazines and dark coffee.
One week passed, and my family had come home from vacation. After a well-deserved night in our own beds, today rolled around and I knew exactly what to do. "Let's go to Borders," I said confidently. I had heard from a friend that the sale was going strong now that the liquidation was happening, and that some things were practically a steal. During vacation, we had been sifting through the jumble of Borders.com, hoping to find something nice. We decided to hold off and greet the deals in person. I hopped in the car with my mom and younger brother, and we drove off to Borders. It was when we got to the street to turn into the parking lot that I noticed this was not going to go as I had hoped. Standing on the corner of the street was a man who looked like he couldn't afford a napkin at McDonalds, holding the pole of the mega-sign that was so prevalent when Circuit City was closing, or if you drive by a furniture warehouse. However, these signs had the Borders logo plastered on them, with the violently brash Impact font glaring at anyone who happened to see it. Slightly dissuaded, I pulled into the parking lot, awaiting what would greet us as we walked in through the heavy wooden doors.
The first thing that greeted us was the smell. Gone were the aromatic scents of coffee and magazines, replaced by the disgusting odor of sawdust, sweat, and cigarette-stained clothes. (I find that cigarettes have a pleasing woody smell when smoked, but the smell is awful when it is practically sewn into whatever fabric it meets.) Paying no mind to the filthy attack of air, I walked to where the latest issue of Dazed and Confused usually is. What greeted me was a kitch-stained calendar of kittens. Puzzled, I looked around and noticed everything was apparently moved around just to (pardon my french) fuck with everyone. all the magazines were picked up and thrown into the stand closest to the entrance. Men's Health was nuzzling up to Good Housekeeping, and Spin was hiding inside a copy of Martha Stewart Living. The only coherent stack of magazines was the latest issue of Adbusters, which proudly sat behind the chart explaining what 30% off meant, as if the magazines were reveling in the blatant irony.
Dazed and Confused was not in the Neverland of magazines, but a blue piece of paper assured me that new items were arriving daily.It then occurred to me that the phrase "royally screwed over" has three words; "Borders liquidation sale" does too. The selection of music left in the store was quite possibly the most pitiful selection of music ever. The three most stocked categories were: screamo, people who sound like Steve Winwood, and Enya. Thankfully, I found a Kate Nash and a Beach House CD in the bargain bin that had been shoved to the center of the store. The rest of the merchandise was not so lucky. Now, I know that I am posting on a forum where users take the handling and wellbeing of their books very seriously. What I am about to describe is quite possibly the wort possible situation that could ever happen to you.
As I browsed the still extensive selection of books, I noticed the customers that looked out of place. Usually, the Borders here is filled with high school and college kids, middle-aged people, and generally quiet, polite customers who would be happy to help you out, even though they don't work here. I entered Borders behind a tanned guy who looked like he had just ran out of the gym. He was toned in all the "beach muscle" areas, his hair was the color of burnt bark, slightly spiked up and highlighted red on the ends. Following him was his girlfriend, who looked like a crack pipe ran her over. "Look," she moaned in her nasally voice, "they have so many good movies. Look, they have Marley and Me, oh my God, they have all the good movies!" That moment opened my eyes to what those savages had done to what once was my heaven. Book covers were torn on the corners, and greasy fingerprints smeared the insides of pages. Dogeared pages were widespread, and I noticed many a book thrown on to a pile of DVDs on sale. Somehow, a vinyl copy of Coldplay's X&Y had been wedged in between two books about movie making. I was giddy when I found a copy of Conversations With Woody Allen, but reluctantly had to put it down when I noticed some strange sticky stuff was smeared all over it. I eventually ended up getting Dave Cullen's Columbine, which had finally been released in paperback, as well as the two CDs I mentioned earlier. My mom already has most of the classic books I want to read over the summer, and the only copy of The Great Gatsby was poorly printed and sold for $14. I decided to go get it at the used books store a few blocks down. As I left to do so, I noticed that half of the employees were miserable, and the others apathetic. It then occurred to me that the miserable ones were the Borders employees, and the others were sent in by the liquidation company, who had turned this great store into a Wings. (For those who don't know, Wings is a chain of stores on the southeast coast of the United States that sell trashy beach stuff, e.g.: a t-shirt that says, "Pretty when you're drunk.")
The only way I can properly describe how I feel about Borders closing is trough two analogies, one vulgar and the other not so much. The former being that feeling you get after you masturbate. It's a feeling that starts in your lower intestines and rises up until it disappears in your chest. It feels like you sucked in a bunch of air to fill all of the empty space in your body, and you come down from that temporary high caused by the forced orgasm. The latter is the feeling of a phantom limb, which struck me when I walked in to the changed Borders. It had become a vestige, a hollow state of misery and nothingness that permeated the awful smell and terrible reggae muzak that had come in with the liquidation company. I tried writing a sonnet about the final chapter of the once noble Borders, but then I realized I had the FYEMA forum members, who could do a much better job than I.
On that note, may your Shakespearian muse come to you as you commiserate with me through a sonnet.
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